


Blood And Bone

by AxeMeAboutAxinomancy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bargaining, Clever Sam Winchester, Demon Blood, Demon Dean, Demon Dean Winchester, Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, Hopeful Ending, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Podfic Available, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 06:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11503440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy
Summary: Dean doesn't want to be saved, and offers Sam a bargain. Sam makes a counteroffer.





	Blood And Bone

Dean's demon blood is boiling. It _hurts_. He can't avoid the pain of it, it's surging sick and hot inside him and it won't leave him alone.

That's how he gets the idea.

When he hears Sam coming back to give him the next shot, Dean bites his tongue, hard. He's got one good chance at this gambit. If it fails, Sam will probably start wearing a welder's mask.

If it succeeds…

Sam comes in. When the light flicks on, Dean's head is lolling forward. Instead of just going right for the holy water and another syringe of sanctified blood, like he _should_ , Sam checks on him, that big hand enveloping Dean's shoulder. Warm and human and so damn stupid.

Dean lets his head loll back as Sam shakes him. Then, looking through his eyelashes to aim, he spits his hot mouthful of blood at Sam's face, just as Sam is opening his mouth to say "Dean?" **_Splat_** , Sam is painted shocking red from nose to chin, and now he's gasping, choking, jerking back, scrabbling at his face with his good hand.

Spitting. Gagging.

Hah. Bull's-eye.

Dean's tongue is already healing, and the burning in his blood is at the lowest ebb right before the next scheduled shot. He smirks.

"How's that taste, Sam?" Smiles wider. "Like old times?"

Sam stares at him in horror. "You - you - " He can't find a word bad enough. The blood on his face makes him look as though Dean punched him in the nose.

"Yeah, you'll think of something. But how is it?" He tilts his head, imitating real curiosity. "Is it like the demon blood you remember? Or is it better? Knight of Hell, you know, there oughta be a step up in quality from a crappy old smoke demon. Mine oughta be like uncut coke."

Sam's mouth is trying to frame words but there don't seem to be any coming down from his brain. Dean looks up at him, blinks slowly, careful to keep his eyes human.

"Want more?"

It's not that surprising when Sam turns and flees the room. But he'll have to come back. He hasn't given Dean the shot yet.

It takes a little while. He can see his watch, since Sam left the light on. It takes thirty-six minutes for Sam to come back.

When he does, he smells minty. And the front of his shirt is wet. He washed his mouth out, brushed his teeth. Maybe even made himself throw up? He looks weird around the eyes.

But he didn't change his shirt, even though there's blood smeared on the sleeve, because it's hard for Sam to do with his arm strapped down. Maybe he expects Dean to spit at him again. But he didn't bring a welding mask.

Maybe he realizes Dean isn't going to do it again. He isn't. There's no need to. He made his point already. A little reminder, a little taste of what Dean's got to offer.

"Sorry, Sammy," he says, shaking his head with a show of regret. "I guess that wasn't nice."

Sam gives him a narrow-eyed scowl. But he doesn't answer. He has decided not to talk to Dean. He turns his back, starts to pick up the next syringe.

Dean says, softly, "I could make it nice."

Oh, he wasn't expecting _that_. "What - " and then Sam remembers he's not-talking-to-Dean and shuts his mouth. He turns back with the uncapped syringe of blood in his good hand and the flask of holy water in the hand that's in the sling. They're like a knife and a whip, to a demon. A knife dipped in poison. A whip that stings like acid.

Dean straightens his back and gives Sam his very best bedroom eyes.

"Could make it real nice," he purrs. "Just the way you like it."

Now, what Sam really ought to do is ignore Dean. He really ought to have that welder's mask just in case, and ear plugs would save him a lot of trouble too. But Sam doesn't want to ignore Dean. Sam wants to _save_ Dean.

And Dean does not want to be saved.

He's already told Sam that, and Sam doesn't care what Dean wants.

"What does that mean?" says Sam, stopping short. Yup. The one thing he shouldn't do.

"You know the stuff you did with Ruby isn't a secret, don't you, Sammy? It's in the Carver Edlund books. And all the demons know about it, too." That's an exaggeration, but not a complete lie. Some demons know about it.

Sam looks not shocked but offended, as though bringing that up after all these years is some kind of rules violation.

"I mean, I knew you drank her blood, but I didn't know you actually did it _while_ fucking her. Nice! I'm actually impressed."

Sam steps closer, readying the holy water. At least he doesn't deny it. His face is stormy, but he's not even trying to deny it.

Dean spreads his hands, though he can't lift them with his wrists tightly bound to the chair arms. It does well enough as a 'don't hurt me' gesture: it stays Sam's hand for a moment.

"So that's what I mean," he says, shifting his thighs against the chair to make Sam look. "You can have… as much as you want, Sammy. Understand?"

He has to wait. He has to let that sink in. You can't keep pushing things with Sam. You have to let an idea push him to the next one. It's laughably easy when you know someone this well and you don't care about hurting them anymore.

"No," says Sam. And Dean braces himself for the whip and the knife. But then Sam goes on, "No, I _don't_ understand."

Don't smile now! Not a good time to smile. But Sam is almost making this too easy.

"You need me to spell it out?" _No, you_ want _me to spell it out._ "I don't wanna change back, and I'm giving you two good reasons to stop now and quit poisoning me with that." He glances at the syringe. Oh, Sam's hand is shaking a little. He looks back up at Sam's face. "You can keep me in here, if you want. I'm okay with that." It would be better than being turned back. And of course, things might change after a little while. A Sam who feeds on him... might get to the point where he doesn't think Dean should even be in a dungeon.

"You can have all the blood you want. It's strong, and I'm strong. Was it good?" Sam doesn't answer, of course, but there's a flicker in his gaze. "Could be even better if you'd stop diluting it with that crap. Could be _amazing."_

"This isn't you," Sam says through his teeth. "This is _that_ \- " jerking his chin toward Dean's Marked right arm. "- making you say whatever it takes to try to stop me curing you."

"No, Sam," and the seductive tone is over, matching Sam's anger now and easily exceeding it, "this is _me_ , and I haven't lied to anybody since I changed. Unlike when I was human. I got so sick of lying all the time, I couldn't even keep track of shit anymore. I'm done with that. It's not like I can't lie, but I seriously don't even want to. It feels _good_ to just tell the truth. It's more fun to see you _freak out_ at the truth."

"What truth! You're trying to sell me _blood_."

"I'm not trying to _sell_ you _anything_. I'm telling you that you're making a mistake, trying to cure me. Even if it works - it won't take the Mark off me. I'll just turn again. Somehow or another. And all you'll really do is make me miserable. But if you don't - if you think it through - this could be a new life for us. You and me, Sammy. We can both be happy. Don't you want that?"

"Happy," says Sam, his voice dripping sarcasm. But he _still_ doesn't finish the job of the day and stick Dean with the needle.

"Yeah. Maybe you didn't notice, but… I haven't been all that destructive, as a demon? Maybe even less than I was as a human! I could've killed Cole, plenty of other people, gone on a stone cold rampage that would put those Leviathan pussies to shame, but I _didn't_. Why, 'cause I didn't _feel_ like it. I'm not _compelled_ to do anything. Crowley sure as hell can't make me, and he's the quote unquote king.

"I hate to break this to you, little brother, but ain't neither of us going to Heaven now. Much less together. So fuck it, let's not die. We don't have to. And besides." He looks Sam in the eye and fires his last shot, point blank. "Remember the first time you got drunk…?"

Without breaking eye contact, Sam finally jabs the needle in, hard, angry. Dean's been expecting it and though it hurts every bit as much as ever - maybe even a little bit more - he makes it look and sound a little bit erotic, gasping, tipping his head back, dipping his eyelids halfway. "Saamm," he moans as the plunger is pushed down. "Hurting me," he moans, and he doesn't have to fake that. Sam is hurting the Hell out of him. That's the whole point.

Finished, Sam yanks the needle back out of Dean's arm, breathing hard. Dean wants to say, _Think about it_ , but his teeth are locked together and hot beads of sweat are already swarming on his forehead and under his clothes. He made his play, now he can only endure and let the things he said worm their way into the deepest parts of Sam's brain.

He would otherwise have held in the little whimpering noises till Sam was gone, but given the circumstances Dean lets them out now. And writhes, back arching. There's no point hiding it now. The pain is as bad as anything they ever did to him in Hell.

If Sam says anything else, Dean can't hear it. There are hours of suffering ahead before he can do anything like think again. Sam leaves the room, turning out the light.

Sometime later, when he wallows up out of the well of pain inside his skin, and wants to scream with the longing to get up and move around, Dean distracts himself with the memory that Sam is no doubt obsessively trying to avoid right this minute.

Sam, drunk for the first time.

Dean can remember it better anyway, obviously, but Sam has clearly not forgotten. He knew exactly what Dean was talking about.

Sam, fourteen. _Just_ fourteen, like, only a week before. Still short. Two beers, plastered.

Crawling into Dean's bed.

The beers had been Dean's. They were medicinal, actually. Dean's arm had been broken in two places while on a hunt and proper painkillers would have meant being seen by a real doctor. And they knew Dad's rule about that. Alcohol was better than nothing. And beer was what they could get.

He'd said Sam could have one, when Sam kept pestering him to know what it felt like. He'd had two himself and was starting a third when he fell asleep. Sam must have finished it.

All Dean knew was, he was having a really nice dream and then the pain in his arm woke him up and he found Sam in his bed, crouching down between Dean's legs, trembling, speech slurred, offering to give him a blowjob.

He had lots of good reasons, too. And he'd already started to cry when Dean reacted.

If he hadn't been in pain… the story might have been different. But if he hadn't been in pain, the thing might not have happened at all.

The Dean of now can't quite remember what the emotions felt like, but he remembers everything he'd thought. What he'd said came out in a mess of words all over the place, but there was plenty in them to make Sam recoil and slink back to the other bed.

And nobody ever mentioned it again until today.

Dean sits there in the dark waiting for Sam to come back, and the pain and the burning and the time dragging by are even more horrible than ever. He tries to sleep but he can't. It's a tossup whether Dean even needs to sleep as a demon, but he still likes to, at least a little. There's no chance of that in this chair, though - back aching, clothes filthy, blood crawling with miserable humanity that he'd worked so hard to leave behind. Sam wants to drag Dean back to that life. Sam must hate him. Sam thinks he's doing this for love, but it's revenge. It has to be revenge.

Dean's gambit didn't work. Sam doesn't want the blood anymore and Dean tipped his hand, said too much, bringing up that time the way he did. Sam might not even come back. He could seal up the bunker and leave Dean entombed here. Alive, and screaming and lonely and hurting and filthy and -

The light flicks on.

Dean startles. He's so out of it, he didn't hear Sam coming.

Sam looks simultaneously terrible and wonderful. He's haggard and unwashed, but there's a tight grace to the way he moves and a hungry gleam in his eye that makes Dean think, Jackpot!

"I tried to call Cas," Sam says. "He's not coming. He's busy."

He sets a duffel bag down on the floor. Dean's eye goes to it unwillingly. What is Sam up to…?

"So I guess it's all up to me," Sam goes on. Dean's head is ringing like a banged gong, but he tilts it in confusion, frowning.

"You don't need anything extra to torture me with, Sammy," he says, his voice a ragged scrape in his dry throat. "What you've got going on so far works just fine." He doesn't even have to play it up at all. He really does feel like shit.

"You know my intent isn't to torture you, Dean," Sam says calmly. Dean frowns. After what he said and did just a few hours ago, Sam should be nowhere near the zipcode of calm.

"So what's in the bag then?" he finally gives in and asks, irritated and miserable and still somehow curious.

Sam smiles at him. "It's the First Blade. Do you want it?"

Dean can't help reacting, physically reacting, adrenaline pouring and pouring till he's sitting up very straight, eyes wide, feeling the hairs on his arms standing up like he's electrified. The First Blade. Right there. In that bag. Or is it? Sam is clever. Sam can lie.

His hand is itching. It is. It is there. It must be. Sam _said._ He can feel it. So close. He wants it so bad. It would feel so good, so _good_ in his hand.

"Let me see it," Dean hears himself saying, and oh crap he sounds like it's the stupid One Ring or something. "Just let me have a look. So I know you're not full of shit."

Sam laughs. "Do you even hear yourself? You sound like - "

"Did you think about what I said?" Dean interrupts him.

Sam doesn't answer the question, but his eyes say Yes.

"Maybe I went too far," Dean hears himself say. "I shouldn't have reminded you about that time. Or since I did, I oughta've told you - "

"Dean, I - "

" - how much I wanted to say Yes."

Sam stares at him.

"But I couldn't," says Dean. He's not making any of it up. There's no need for that. The truth has plenty to work with. "Dad would have _known_. He would've found out. You know he would. Dad would've found out and that would've made the Apocalypse feel like fucking Candyland." Sam flinches to hear the 'A' word, even after all this time. "And whether or not he beat me to death, he'd have sent you away. So I couldn't. Couldn't even let myself _think_ about it. You see that, right?"

Sam doesn't nod, but his eyes say Yes again.

"Dad's gone," Dean says. "Here we are. Maybe you really have grown out of that, like I thought you did. If you really don't want any of that anymore, I won't bring it up again. I swear it. You can just have the blood if that's all you want." He doesn't think it is all Sam wants. But he has to present a reasonable sounding choice. "You could take it from me, use a knife not a needle, cut my arm and drain it into a cup. You could store it. You could _bathe_ in it if you want."

What he's offering would be fucking awful for him if Sam took it, actually. The soulless version of his brother would have jumped on it in a heartbeat and kept Dean like a blood cow. Probably in a veal cage.

But this is not that Sam. This is Sam with his soul holding him back. The Sam who doesn't even want to be a king.

"And what would be in it for you, if I did that?" Sam asks, proving his point. "Wait, let me guess. You figure, after I go on a big demon-blood bender, I'll just let you out of there and give you the Blade, right? I'll just fall right over into Team Black Eyes."

"Maybe," Dean admits. "And maybe while you're at it, you might take me up on the other offer. What's in it for me? Not having you torture me anymore at the very least. Not having you try to force me back into what I used to be. Couldn't you see how miserable I was, Sammy? Is that really what you want for me?"

The sling on Sam's arm makes him look vulnerable for all he's so big. It reminds Dean of his own broken arm, all those years back, that night when Sam cried and said, _Isn't it okay if I love you, De?_

Here and now, Sam shakes his head. He's sure of his ground here. "That sounds good but it's coming from a flawed premise. Remember when I was soulless? _That_ me didn't want to change back, either. _That_ me thought it was better, because yeah, it really is easier not to be human. I know that. But _because_ I got it back, I _know_ it's still better. You're my brother. My brother is human. And when you're cured, I _know_ \- you'll thank me."

"NO I WON'T!" Dean shouts at him, suddenly incandescent with fury, and has the satisfaction of seeing Sam flinch back involuntarily.

But Sam gets hold of himself and shakes his head again. "You will. I know it. And De…" He steps closer. "If you're telling the truth about what you want... let me cure you, and you can have it." He sounds nervous now, and Dean can see the pulse jumping in his neck from here.

Dean snorts. "You're counting on human me being too uptight to collect."

"No," says Sam. "Come on, you know I never 'grew out of it.' Don't you? I'm totally serious. But I don't want _this_ you. I want the _real_ you. So I'm gonna cure you, no matter what you say you want. Because you'll thank me. And then… I'll thank you."

Dean stares at him incredulously. Did Sam… Did Sam just turn the whole thing around on Dean? His whole scheme, turned right around and thrown back at him? Yes. That's exactly what Sam has done. Goddamnit!

He grinds his teeth in frustration, squirming in the chair. It's unbearable suddenly. He thought he had found the key to his escape, but Sam is a fucking Terminator of stubbornness. He wants out of this chair, this room, this bunker so bad he could scream.

Then Sam gets the duffel bag and opens it, and it turns out not to contain the Blade at all, that was bullshit, Sam's a _liar_ , there's nothing in there but more human blood he's had sanctified however he's doing it, goddamnit, and when Sam starts at him with the needle, this time Dean does scream. Before Sam can even get near him, he screams and screams like Robert Plant on bad acid.

Sam stops short, staring at him. Maybe he's waiting for Dean to get winded. (He'll wait a long time. Dean is a demon now.) Or hoarse? Dean is hoarse already, but oh well. Sam stops waiting anyhow. He advances again despite the screaming. He just won't fucking stop.

Dean is getting really fucking desperate now. Stupid desperate. No-more-pride desperate. Crying and begging desperate.

He knows begging won't work, can't save him from this - he learned that in Hell. Sam is as relentless as Alastair, and Dean tells him so, his voice distorted with tears, as Sam slams the needle home and the burning starts all over again. Fire ants marching through his blood vessels, biting and stinging and tearing him to pieces from inside. His screams aren't even loud now, so it must be very easy for Sam to tune them out when he turns the light off and abandons Dean to the darkness and the pain.

Later that night, he feels something shift just a little inside him. It's a vague, distant feeling, but it's something different, and since Sam chained his ass to this chair, nothing has been different. This is something inside him - what else? Sam's goddamn cure.

Something flickers in Dean's mind's eye. A picture from the past. (Speaking of Alastair.) The picture: A devil's trap with water drip, drip, dripping on it till it broke, and it didn't hold Alastair anymore.

***

"Come on, Sammy! Don't you wanna hang out with your big brother? Spend a little quality time?"

He knows Sam can hear him. He can hear Sam's frightened breathing. If he were calm enough and patient enough, Dean could probably find him by his heartbeat.

But he isn't calm, and he isn't patient. Not after all that. Not after Sam _teasing_ him that he had the Blade. That's too fucking far.

He's got a hammer in his hand. He picked it up out of the kitchen drawer. He'd gone in thinking about a knife, but he doesn't want to actually kill Sam, and he's too good at killing with a knife to risk it. A hammer, well. He can just hurt Sam a lot. Could kill him, but probably won't.

Probably.

He uses the hammer to break a door in, enjoying the look on Sam's face. Dean is still really, really fucking angry about being chained up and injected when he actually flat out _begged_ Sam to stop. If that's how ruthless Sam wants to be, then fine. Dean can do ruthless. Dean will hunt him down and scare the shit out of him a little. And then when he's had enough fun, he'll drip some more of his blood in Sam's mouth until Sam finally sees the blacklight and gets with the fucking program.

And. After he talked all _that_ up to Sam while he was still in the chair, he's kind of got a taste for something now. Since they were talking about it. Sam thought he could dangle himself as bait to make Dean want to be human again. Fucking typical.

It might have worked, if Dean didn't hate being human _so fucking much_ that he'll do anything, anything to avoid it. Even kill Sam, if Sam forces him to. But he doesn't think Sam will be able to do that. Not when Dean's done with him.

When he finally corners Sam, it's obvious right away that even if Sam's shoulder wasn't fucked up and he had the use of both of his arms, he's too fucking soft hearted to do what he has to do, even though Dean tells him to do it and holds still to let him. Dying as a demon would be better than being cured. It's a compromise, right?

But Sam won't do it. Sam won't see any path but the one he thinks is right. Okay. That's how it's gonna be then.

Dean steps forward and he's ready to go and then, fucking _then_ goddamn Castiel is there right when Dean doesn't want him or need him, he's all graced up again somehow and too strong for Dean, who is after all at his lowest ebb of demon strength if he could walk across the devil's trap. It had hurt him, but it hadn't held him. The angel holds him. Dean growls, and struggles, but they drag him right back to his own little hell, chain him down and shoot him full of more blood while he screams and cries and curses them.

And then it's like Dean's caught up in a tornado, some huge unstoppable maelstrom of misery and fever and pain everywhere inside him. It's a tornado all right, knocking everything down. There's no breath left in him for screaming or curses. The Mark on his arm is burning like a fire, he can see it glowing through his closed eyelids.

It builds, whipping around him into a scream, louder than anything in the world, inside him, he can't stand it, can't stand another second of it, he can't wait to die -

Dean's head rocks forward and there's silence, blessed silence, even his ears aren't ringing, there's just nothing at all.

He breathes. He's tied to a chair in the dungeon room. He hurts all over. His stomach is so empty.

He can see Cas and Sam standing there, staring. They got him then. They did it. He listens inside himself, and the Mark is still there on him, he doesn't have to look, he can feel it. But the rest of it, the power and the dark, mean joy that was always spinning and pulsing inside him since Metatron killed him - those are gone.

"Hey fellas," Dean says, weary but making an effort. "You look worried."

The holy water in his face doesn't hurt. It's cool, and some of it drips in his mouth. He licks his lips. He's thirsty, too.

It feels weird to be let out of the chair. It feels weird to walk through the bunker he was just prowling through yesterday with a hammer. The hammer damaged the wall, shaming Dean to see the hole there. His demon self didn't give a shit, but his human self has sentimental feelings about the bunker and hates to see it disrespected.

He's grateful to Castiel for intervening, but even more grateful when he leaves. Dean spoke lightly about Sam wanting a 'divorce,' but Cas didn't react to that the way Dean would expect if Sam had told any of the things they said to each other. Dean didn't really think he would, but - he had to make sure.

But of course he didn't.

So when Sam leaves, to go get food, or so Cas tells him, Dean listens to the total silence of the bunker and then goes and takes the longest, hottest shower of his life.

When he's done, and gets dressed, his stomach is so empty it hurts. He goes into the kitchen to see if there's anything he can eat, but stops short at the sight of the drawer, not quite shut, with the handle of the hammer just visible there.

Now Dean feels sick. He backs out of the kitchen and goes to sit slumped at the big table. Sam is probably not ever coming back. Dean wouldn't blame him, not really. But what will he do if that happens? He doesn't want to stay here, no matter how much he liked it before, if Sam doesn't want to come back.

Dean doesn't know what to do. He sits, blank, no longer hungry, and not knowing what to _do_.

When he hears Sam coming back, he feels like an old dog whose owners came back to get him out of the pound. But he's embarrassed to show it after all the things he said.

Sam, on the other hand, brightens at the sight of him, and lifts the bags he's got weighing down his good arm.

"Hey! I brought cholesterol. And booze."

Dean's appetite comes back with a rush. In fact his stomach makes a loud cartoon noise that makes Sam laugh. Thanks, stomach. No, really.

There's a bag of bacon cheeseburgers. There's a bucket of fried chicken, there's mashed potatoes. There is an entire lemon meringue pie, and it looks and smells homemade. And like Sam said, there's booze.

"Sorry I didn't get beer," he shrugs, "had to carry everything with one arm, and this was lighter."

Dean nods. _He_ didn't hurt Sam's arm, so there's at least one thing in his world he doesn't have to feel guilty about.

Sam gets glasses for them to drink whiskey from - he bought something nice, too - and Dean sets to work on eating as much as he can. Sam is hungry too, and helps with the chicken and potatoes and pie, and they both drink till they're warm and a little stupid.

It seems almost like normal. But Dean glances Sam's way more than once and catches Sam in the act of glancing back. They're not quite relaxed. They're not quite sure if anything that was said was real or bullshit. And how do you ask?

When he just can't eat any more, Dean sits back sighing, licking meringue off his lips. "Thanks," he says sincerely. "I needed that."

"I know," says Sam, smiling down at his own half demolished plate of pie.

Dean cleans up, he's pretty sure that's only fair. It doesn't take all that long. He's stumbling a little, has a heavy buzz on but also is so full it's making him stupid. Sam is looking at him in concern, and Dean doesn't have to manufacture the explanatory yawn. "I'm worn out. I'm headed to bed." He could probably fall down on his bed fully clothed and pass out for a day and a half after all that. No doubt Sam's pretty much the same.

"Okay," says Sam, then he hesitates. "Uh. Dean?"

Oh God, now? He's going to say something about it _now?_ Dean shuffles his feet a little, trying not to groan. He started it. He deserves it. Right?

But Sam says, "I… need a little help. Could you help me with this?" His good arm points to his bad arm. "Need a shower but… it hurts like hell trying to deal with this thing by myself."

Dean feels stupid. Really stupid. "Yeah. Sure. Uh - what should I - "

"My room," Sam says, and leads him there.

Dean didn't come in here while he was a demon. Only into his own room. Sam has a TV in here - Dean has always wondered if growing up in motel rooms, Sam doesn't feel at home without a TV at the end of his bed. It's even offset a little, so he looks over at it. Just like in every crappy place they've ever stayed.

Sam sees him looking at it, but neither of them says anything. Sam just holds still and lets Dean take the brace off him. He can see how hard it must be for Sam to do by himself - and then he'd had to go with Dean's blood on his shirt for more than a day... the jacket covered it when he went out, but the smell must have made him crazy and sick.

"Cas could've helped you with this," Dean mutters, then he realizes how that sounds and adds quickly, "Healed it I mean. Why didn't he?"

"He offered. I said no. He's still on borrowed grace. I can heal on my own."

Stubborn. Sam has a point, but still.

He helps Sam take his shirts off, too. Despite everything, he still can downshift into taking care of Sam, even now. It's ingrained into both of them. Not like it's his favorite memory or anything, but hell, he used to change Sam's diapers. And in the years since then he's tried to do everything for Sam that he imagined Mom would have done. Maybe not in the same ways, but still. That was Dean's job. It's not exactly his job anymore - but he's still happy to do it. It feels _right_ on a really basic level.

Of course, then Sam is standing there looking awkward with his shirt off. Dean figures he can take care of pants and showering, and turns to go.

"Dean, wait."

He stops short but he doesn't turn. He doesn't know what look Sam has on his face and he's not sure he wants to know.

Sam's good arm loops around Dean's neck and shoulders from behind, and Dean stands there being awkwardly back-hugged.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, against the back of Dean's head.

"What the hell for," Dean snaps. Sam's arm tightens as though he's trying to get away.

"I know you didn't want to come back. I know you didn't. I'm sorry I made you. But what could I do?" His voice breaks a little, and Dean feels Sam's chest hitch against his back. "I needed you. I _need_ you."

"We don't have to do this," Dean says, his voice so hoarse it feels like a raw scrape in his throat. "Of course you did the right thing, Sam, what the hell. You had to. And you know, you were right when you said I'd thank you. So thank you." His palms are sweating. "You don't have to say anything else. Or do anything else. We don't have to talk about it."

There's the thing right there. Sam so, so wants to talk about it. Dean can read it on him without even being able to see his face.

"Why don't you go take your shower," he says, his voice sounding as weary as he feels. "I'm not kidding, I'm worn out. I'm gonna go sleep. Later. We can talk about it later."

He doesn't want to talk about it ever.

"We don't have to talk about it at all," Sam says, not letting go. Dean's heart is pounding now. "I just have one thing I wanna say."

He leans in close and says it right near Dean's ear.

"I meant what I said."

Then, he lets go. Dean stumbles forward a step, then he can't help it. He turns around.

Sam, shirtless, is standing there giving Dean that puppy-eyed look. He's used it on Dean since he was little and it works every bit as well now as it ever did.

Dean opens his mouth to say something crushing. He knows it's his job to do that. But before he tried the blood gambit, he'd said a _lot_ of crushing things to Sam while Sam had him tied up in the chair. None of them were deserved. Sam didn't take anything out of his life. Wasn't that obvious? Sam gave him a reason to live!

"I'm gonna get that shower now," Sam says, as though nothing weird has happened at all between anybody. He gets his towel and goes out of the room, past Dean, who stands there staring after him.

Of course, the normal thing for Dean to do, the thing he said he was going to do, is go to his room, go to bed, and never let this topic be brought up again. The normal thing to do would be to act like all that stuff he said was just a symptom, just his asshole demon mode and none of it was true - and never, never talk about it, and also shut Sam down if he ever tried.

Dean stands there, and he's never felt further away from normal. He looks at the cold dark screen of the TV, sees his distorted reflection there, and the reflection of Sam's bed.

He sits down on the end of it. Distantly he can hear shower sounds. He should get up and go back to his room before Sam is done. Sam doesn't have to know he ever hesitated.

He listens to the water, and keeps on hesitating. He leans his elbows on his knees and doesn't move, even when he hears the whine of Sam blow drying his hair.

He's taking a long damn time about it. Always does. He's got too much hair.

Dean tips over onto his back and closes his eyes. His feet are still on the floor, but the rest of him feels like it sinks into the heavy firm softness of the mattress (Sam didn't get memory foam, but this is kind of nice anyway). His head is too heavy to pick up again. He wasn't lying when he said he was worn out. He feels so much better for having eaten, but at the same time his body feels outraged at how he's been treating it. Much better than what happens to the average demon meatsuit, of course. But he's still so tired.

There's a warm dark blank space in Dean's thoughts, and then Sam is there, hauling him back by the arms so his feet are on the bed too.

It's ridiculous. Why did he let himself fall asleep here? But his whole body is so heavy. His head is heavier than all the rest of it. Does it really matter where he sleeps if all he's doing is sleeping?

Yes, of course it does.

But. He made his choice when he sat down on the bed, really. Or when he fell over on it. He's here to stay.

It's like when they were kids. Dad would have the bed nearest to the door, and Dean and Sam would share the other one. After Dad was gone, Dean took his spot, and Sam would always have the more protected position. Nobody ever talked about this, it was just so obvious to Dean.

He doesn't know if it was obvious to Sam too. Maybe not. Sam thinks living in a motel room is normal. Or if not that, it's what he remembers and what he expects out of life. Only now they have their own place, and it's lonely to sleep so far away from Sam. Dean would never have admitted it, but it's true.

None of these thoughts happen in Dean's head in the more or less sensible way they would if he were awake. It's more a vague series of feelings. Drifting.

Then Sam puts an arm - his good arm - around him, and _that_ wakes Dean up.

He doesn't move, he just lies there with his eyes open and waits to see what else Sam is going to do. But Sam is just about asleep already and within a minute he's all the way out, breathing in the slow easy rhythm Dean has always been able to identify. Peaceful sound. Reassuring. Sam is heavy and warm against Dean's back, and Dean's under a blanket but he doesn't seem to be under the same covers that Sam is. Some kind of propriety, which is hardly something Dean ought to be worried about when he's the one who fell asleep on Sam's bed.

Of course Sam is going to want to snuggle up. Dean is basically signaling that _he_ wants to. _Does_ he want to? He doesn't mind it right now. With Sam awake though, it'll obviously be a little more complicated. Whatever Sam expects -

Dean really has almost zero idea of that. All there is is that night in the past, but Sam had hardly known anything about anything then.

Thinking about this is not helping him get back to sleep. Maybe he should get up and escape the room.

Sam's arm tightens around him as though he senses what Dean's about to do. Getting out of the bed will wake Sam up. Might as well defer that awkwardness until later.

He can hear Sam breathing. It's kind of what he wanted, really. He tells himself that as he starts to drift off to sleep. It's warm, and he hasn't been really warm again since he died the last time. He's only just realizing that now. He couldn't feel anything until he felt this.

And then he feels everything all at once, and it's like a kick in the gut, knocking the air out of his lungs. Dean was a demon. Forget that 'Knight' bullshit. He was a low, belly-crawling, black-eyed fucking demon like he's always hated. And worse. _He tried to get Sam addicted again._ How can Sam even let him in here after all that. Being cured doesn't take away any of the things he did. Or _said_. Grief and shame wrap around Dean's head and squeeze. He doesn't want to wake Sam up. He doesn't want to make a sound or -

He's rigid all over, shaking, so it doesn't matter how quiet he is, he wakes Sam up anyway.

Sam's arm on Dean gets a little lighter, as though he's prepared for Dean to want to escape. Dean doesn't move. He can't, really.

Sam lets his arm settle back down. Quietly he says, "When I didn't have my soul, I let you get turned by a vampire."

Dean wants to say What? or, What's that got to do with anything? but he knows damn well why Sam is bringing it up. "That's different," he mutters.

"It's no different. Not really. It was a total fucking betrayal, for no good reason. And it happened. I didn't just _talk_ about it."

"Chased you with a hammer like a fucking psycho."

"You had more than enough chance to use it before Cas showed up to stop you."

That's true. He did. He hadn't really wanted to hit Sam with the hammer so much as scare him and make him run. When Dean caught him… then what? There'd been a lot of sex talk. Maybe that. Probably that.

Before he can finish forming the thought, Sam says, "And that me? Had _other_ plans for you, back then. Only reason I didn't follow through is, I was sure you'd leave."

 _Other plans._ Dean doesn't even have to ask what he means. He gets what Sam means. He remembers lying awake in the same motel rooms, unsure if he could trust enough to go to sleep. Wondering if, when he did pass out, he wouldn't wake up with that Sam-thing crouching over him with his eyes lit up like a cat's.

Just like the Dean-thing had been planning to do the other way around, just a few hours ago.

"I understand what happened," Sam whispers, his arm tight around Dean. "I don't blame you. I don't, De. But I, still. I meant what I said."

He feels Sam's lips against the back of his neck in not quite a kiss. But almost.

"Isn't it okay if I love you?"

Those whispered words. Sam actually _remembers_ saying that. And now he says it again, the heat of his breath printing the words onto the back of Dean's neck.

And he wants to twist free because he doesn't deserve it, Dean knows that he doesn't, he was a demon mere hours ago, sitting and waiting with demon blood in his demon mouth to spit it into Sam's face.

Sam shakes him a little, and Dean realizes he's waiting for an answer. As though there's anything Dean can say except -

"Jesus, Sammy," and is he saying the same thing he said, all those years ago? Maybe, but the next thing is different. And also this time, Sam is the one with a broken arm, or nearly so, and Dean remembers to move carefully when he turns around so that they're face to face.

"If," and his throat is tight, "if you still love me after all that - "

Sam anticipates the end of the sentence and cuts it off by leaning in and kissing him.

His demon self really had been telling the truth. Back then Dean had wanted _so badly_ to say yes to that question. But the fear of being separated from Sam had been the real terror, with Dad's rough justice only a secondary threat in comparison. Years and years have passed and it was never mentioned again till Dean did himself, bringing it up as a potential temptation, along with his dirty demon blood. Low down. So fucking low.

But Sam turned it around on him. Sam turned him around.

Sam's mouth is hot against his, feels both soft and hard somehow. And big. It's - it's weird. Not bad weird, it's _good_ , but Dean's never been so self-conscious during a kiss - except maybe his first.

Sam makes an impatient noise into his mouth like Pay attention, and Dean's brain stops flailing around and gives up trying to deal with everything that happened before this. Now there is only this. Only them.

He kisses Sam, shows Sam how well he can do it, the tricks he knows, showing off. Sam makes a pleased noise, like a deep bear growl rumble, and fuck but that's hot and _does things_ to Dean.

After a while of this Dean finds himself lying on his back. For the first time he notices that Sam has some kind of planetarium light in here that throws faint stars onto the ceiling. It looks old and well made, so it must be a Men of Letters thing, but Sam has jury rigged it with some kind of small LED light.

Sam is sighing a sigh at him because Dean is fully dressed and he's only got one working arm to do something about that with. Dean reaches down to help because what he can't do for himself, he can do for Sam. That's just how it is.

Sam drags his jeans down with underwear included, and Dean throws both of his shirts overboard and he is suddenly completely naked, like he's been turned out of his shell. Exposed. Hard. Above him, the stars. Sam is a shadow between his legs.

Dean takes a breath to say - he doesn't even know what - he never gets to say it. Sam does not try to reenact the original scenario by asking again. He takes the permission he's already got and runs with it. Sam's good hand is on Dean's thigh, he can feel every fingertip like a brand, and Sam's big hot mouth is suddenly enveloping Dean's cock, so that his gathered breath is released in a wordless, flustered shout.

He doesn't lick, and he doesn't latch on and suck, instead Sam's mouth loosely enfolds him and savors him there, hot and wet and loose and Dean can't stop moaning because it's so fucking good. He never knew he wanted it like that. But God Sam keeps doing it, taking his time, tongue sliding lazily around and there are fireworks going off in Dean's eyes. No, they're the projected stars from the ceiling, and they're swimming in tears.

His hands are in Sam's hair, cradling his head - loose as he can, to mirror what Sam is doing to him. So soft. So - relentlessly soft. When Dean pushes up instinctively seeking more, Sam won't alter what he's doing, except maybe to tease him more with his wandering tongue.

"Sam," he gasps, the first word he's said, and Sam lifts his head, replacing his mouth with his hand, stroking and gripping him properly with wet friction and pressure. "Let me see you come," Sam says, and Dean can't do anything else, arching his back and coming with a loud, hoarse cry that echoes in his ears afterwards.

Sam makes that pleased-bear noise again and oh fuck he's _licking it off_ of Dean, off his cock and his belly and everywhere else, and Dean's only ever seen that in porn. Another pulse of cum throbs out of him and Sam licks that up too. Dean whimpers.

Then Sam has mercy on him and lies down beside Dean, the two of them just fitting in Sam's bed, since it's okay to touch now. Dean turns his head.

"You want… Should I…?"

He totally expects Sam to tease him by pretending not to know what Dean means and making him say it more clearly, but Sam has other ideas. He shakes his head. "No, I got it. Just… _watch me._ "

The way he says it, and the way he touches himself in the dim artificial starlight while Dean watches him, makes Dean understand really clearly, Sam wants this more than anything. And he'd wanted to watch Dean come, and it definitely wasn't because of any aversion to the taste.

Dean pushes up on his elbow and looks down at Sam. Sam has one hand on his belly, that's the bad arm, he's been instinctively protecting it, and the other hand is on his cock but really loose, kind of like how he had his mouth on Dean.

Sam's looking back at him, eyes wide, biting his lip. "I… Um. I have this fantasy. I've had it for years. About you."

He looks to Dean like he's sort of bracing himself, probably waiting for Dean to say something _funny_ in response to that. If they weren't naked in bed together he might have. But they are.

"Tell me," Dean says.

Sam shudders a little, takes a deep breath and says, looking away, "Some night when Dad's away, and it's just you and me, I go to you when - You're home from some hot date and you're in a good mood, so I go to you and say - I _confess_ to you how I keep waking up all hard - and I don't know what to do about it - and you, you show me. How to touch myself. How to get myself off. You're right next to me. You whisper in my ear."

Dean's mouth is hanging wide open by now. He notices, shuts it, swallows, and asks. "What do I say?"

"It's changed a little here and there over the years," says Sam.

He's stalling. "Tell me," Dean says again. Sam seems like he's sorry he brought it up. But he did bring it up.

"You say - I mean it isn't a _script_ , Dean… It's… You say stuff like 'it's okay' and 'like that' and 'doing good' and, and." He is blushing so hard Dean can feel heat rolling off of him.

Dean settles down next to Sam so that he's not staring at his embarrassed face, but down his body, and he whispers in Sam's ear. _"Tell me."_

Sam inhales sharply through his nose. "And pet names." He's stopped hesitating: he's committed now. "Like sweetheart, good boy, baby boy. Uh. Stuff like that…" Committed, but still squirming. That last one, that Sam tried to shove through in a river of other words, that's the one that matters so much he's ashamed of it. Dean assumes he's worried that Dean will make fun of him for it.

He wouldn't. He won't. He's, um. Turned on by it, it turns out. And it also does something for Dean to play along, to egg Sam on, to roll with it. After Sam gave him that amazing blowjob, anything is possible, isn't it?

"That's right, Sammy…" he purrs into Sam's ear, "show me, touch yourself, baby boy. That's right, that's good." Because Sam is squirming, not in embarrassment but in intense arousal, precome drips down onto Sam's belly like from a faucet. His hand is very loose around his cock. Trying not to come too fast. But maybe it's supposed to be like Sam said, that in the fantasy he doesn't know how, or pretends he doesn't.

"It's all right. You're doing so good. Feels good, right? Anything that feels good is okay," Dean whispers. "I'll do anything for you, sweetheart. I'll help you. You just come to me."

Sam turns his head to stare at Dean in amazement, eyes and mouth wide, his cheeks flushed, his hair a mess, so fucking beautiful, and he gasps, "De."

"It's okay, Sammy." God, he never realized how being sweet like this could be so _filthy_. Dean is completely turned on by the whole thing himself now and he looks down Sam's body. "You need to make your hand a little tighter. I'll help you." He reaches down and before Sam can even catch a startled breath, is enfolding Sam's hand around Sam's own cock, one of Dean's fingers brushing against it too, velvet on hard heat. Sam tightens his grip, whimpering.

"That's right, that's good, come on, baby boy," and remembering what Sam said to him just before, "Let me see you come for me."

Sam writhes, and the sound he makes could have been pain or possession or any number of things, but it's pure pleasure, the sound of someone surprised to find they're getting exactly what they always wanted. Dean can feel a hard throb under his hand, Sam's cock flexing slightly, and then pulsing like a drumbeat as he comes and comes, wailing.

"Good boy," Dean tells him, more than once.

Afterward, Dean is more inclined to get a washcloth for Sam's cum-spattered belly than to return Sam's favor, but Sam doesn't seem at all offended. He gives Dean a shy smile. Dean takes that as an invitation to get back into the bed.

He assumed Sam would fall right asleep, but Sam is typically stubborn. He nuzzles in against Dean's neck and sighs, "Thank you."

"Thank _me?"_ In Dean's view, that wasn't even a handjob, and Sam did that mind-melting thing with his mouth for Dean. _And_ licked him clean afterwards. "I should be thanking you."

_You'll thank me, and then... I'll thank you._

Sam just laughs a little, sleepy and pleased. "Well, got any fantasies I can blow _your_ mind by making come true?"

Dean hesitates, then says, "When your arm's all healed up, then yeah."

Sam makes an interested noise.

***

It's a few weeks till that happens, but in the meantime, their lives go on being their fucked-up selves what with more goddamn werewolves, and then that _play_ about Supernatural, which was _full-on_ weird, even worse than the books in a way because of the catchy songs.

But their lives are different now too, of course, because now they've got each other, all the way. Dean would be happy - _is_ happy except for one little thing... the Mark still on his arm. He tries not to think about it, the way he once tried not to think about going to Hell when his one-year contract ran out. It feels the same anyway, because both times, what the fuck else could Dean possibly have done?

Not thinking about that.

Dean's got something else to think about right now. He told Sam what he wanted a couple of weeks ago, but made Sam wait to do it for a full week after the brace has been off his arm. Yeah, yeah, Sam is pretty much as strong as Superman, but Dean is not risking him re-injuring that shoulder just for fun.

But Sam really is okay now, and Dean spent some alone time earlier getting himself ready, and after both of them have spent even _more_ time demanding whether the other is _really_ okay, they are finally here:

Up against the wall, Sam's cock inside him, his legs around Sam's waist. Sam holding him up, fucking into him hard, his breath growling in his throat.

Sam is strong, so strong. Dean knew that, of course, duh, but this. This is really knowing it. Really feeling it. Really - _ah_ \- _getting_ it. Sam is holding Dean's weight so easily, like there's nothing to it. It's almost scary, almost too much, except of course that this is exactly what Dean wanted.

They've both got their souls. Whatever wrong they may be doing, it's a choice.

The roleplay stuff Sam likes to do, somehow that doesn't bother Dean at all. Sam's an adult, of course. There's no gray area now. But there's a naughty thrill to it too, a touch of time travel, letting that younger version of Sam have what he always wanted. Giving him the answer he always wanted to give.

"Sam," he moans in the here and now. "Fuck - yeah - _Sam_ \- " There's no question of stuff like 'baby boy' or even 'Sammy' in a situation like this. The sweet sliding stretch and burn of Sam's cock up his ass jogs sounds out of Dean's mouth without Dean's brain being involved at all. "So - good - yeah - don't stop, don't you fucking stop fucking me, _fuck_ me," in a blur of violence and pleasure. How many times has Dean been thrown against a wall by this or that goddamn thing, ghosts and gods and demons and just fucking everything it seems like, but this, this is the way Dean actually wants it.

Fucked full. Toes curling. Sweat on him from both of them, and the sweet smell of Sam's hair. Sam is his whole world right now, there's just Sam, and the wall.

And _yeah_ of course Sam is big, he's huge, what would you expect, and _yeah Sam_ he'll be feeling this tomorrow all right, but _oh God_ somehow they fit together. And Sam is good, _so good_ , it's perfect, _fucking perfect_.

Oh, he didn't know that, didn't know being told that he's perfect would hit Sam like that. Dean will try to remember that, but now he's coming, coming, no more words, just them together, grasping at each other, completing the circuit.

A minute or so later, when Sam staggers back from the wall, Dean has enough of his senses to try to help, but his limbs are still shaking and they end up in a stupid pile only half on Dean's bed. Sam's sweating, laughing softly (sex makes him do that, it's cute,) hauling at Dean to try to get them both better situated, but the laughter doesn't exactly help. In the end Dean is laughing too.

When they're finally on the bed, limbs loose and entwined, sweat cooling, and Sam takes a breath to speak, Dean expects Feelings, but instead Sam shocks him by saying bluntly, "You've been dreaming about the First Blade. Haven't you?"

"Sometimes," he admits grudgingly, and they both know he means All the time. The way they are right now, there's no pulling away or hiding anything, he's inside out, beyond pride. He can't stop touching Sam even now, in the middle of being interrogated. Dean's pretty different from when this started, he thinks, but Sam's just the same as he ever was. He's relentless, no matter what he does.

And anyway, they sleep together now.

"I'm sorry I taunted you with it," Sam says, surprising him again. "Pretending I had it here. I was so pissed off about the blood in my face. I was punishing you."

"I get it," Dean says. "I deserved it. It's the worst thing I ever did to you." After a long, awful moment of silence he amends: "One of the worst things."

Sam probably thinks Gadreel was worse. But again - what the fuck else could Dean possibly have done?

"No, you're right," Sam says slowly. "It was the worst thing. It was a horribly good plan, De. It was such a low blow... and it almost worked."

Dean catches his breath. This is the first he's heard of this. It almost worked.

"Oh yeah. Didn't you know? It was close. You got me right in the mouth, I never saw it coming, I swallowed some of it before I knew what was happening. I had to go throw it up again. God, that was awful. That's what got me mad enough to want to punish you. But I wish I hadn't, because of the way you looked when you thought I had the Blade here. I promise you, that was a lot scarier than the hammer."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that. The way things are with them now, he has other things to think about and crave and wear him out… but when he sleeps, he dreams about the Blade. It's a sickness, dragging at him.

"I think it was your other offer that saved me. Saved us both, really. After I had a few minutes to calm down and think about it… I realized, I understood it meant there was hope. There was something else still there in you. I had to fight for that."

"You said I'd thank you," Dean says, a little hoarsely. "I'll say it again: You were right. Thank you."

Sam smiles at him, but says sternly, "I'm still gonna fight. I'm telling you this right now, Dean. I won't go behind your back. But I am going to find a way to get you free of this, too. Whatever it takes."

His hand closes gently around Dean's arm, covering the Mark with his fingers. It makes Dean shiver for Sam to touch it, and not in a good way.

Sam lets go of his arm, and touches Dean's face. "When you were a demon, you said neither of us would be going to Heaven. Maybe not, anymore. But wherever we end up, I want it to be - together."

 _Just not as demons._ Dean nods, and he's got a lump in his throat now. He has to clear it to be able to talk. When he can, he says:

"You've always been the one who could see light at the end of the tunnel. And I know how smart you are. Just 'cause I can't see it - doesn't mean it isn't there."

And the smile Sam gives him this time is _dazzling._

Dean does see light, he realizes. Not directly, but - reflected from Sam. Like moonlight. There's a reason Sam chooses stars for his bedroom ceiling. He's right at home there.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Blood And Bone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690430) by [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy)




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